Poets in Wartime

My sentiments are
simply
ignored predicates,
drunk and
degenerate penance
embezzling anger and
stacking it
like Jenga blocks.

Top notch manipulators dropping hints about future guilt trips pencil
in the decimals where
my despair should
feel whole.

At a fraction of
their worth
the numerals disperse,
engineer a
lonely verse of
algebraic worship,
a mathematical
tourniquet to
hold my skin together until

the equation
finally works.

And as we finally come to terms with where debris met the dirt and corpses fed the worms; where a legion of youth died for some obtuse political goal, I’m reminded there are no lessons

in war (none
worth
learning anyway)

yet I’m tasked with such a burden,
to use the
blood still
soaked into
grass

to devise a curriculum whose sole
purpose is to remind
the world

nobody won.

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4 thoughts on “Poets in Wartime

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